


Don't Cry

by MightierThanSwords



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Draco is an idiot, Harry is also an idiot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1221730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MightierThanSwords/pseuds/MightierThanSwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone and broken, the last thing Draco wants is a confrontation with the man he believes he's lost forever, but Harry has something to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Cry

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to ff.net but I decided it was about time to move things across. This fic is a shameless piece of angst and I will not apologise for it. Or for the naughty words that somehow crept in.  
> I will, however, offer cookies in exchange for comments.

* * *

Malfoys don’t cry. Which means that I surely can’t be crying; logically, it makes no sense, because Malfoys _do not cry_.

And yet, my cheeks are wet.

I curl my knees up to my chest and bury my face in my forearms, attempting to stop the shudder that racks my body and failing completely, and trying to remember at what point it was that this day went so disastrously wrong. When I’d woken up this morning, wrapped in a warm embrace, everything had been idyllic. Work had been less perfect, but then, it’s work and I expected nothing else. I’d comforted myself by spending the entire day looking forward to the moment when I could get back to that comforting pair of arms, curved protectively around me. To the evening paper and customary squabble-that-isn’t-really-a-squabble over who reads it first. To the bright smile of joy that always greets me when I slump, tiredly, into a seat at the kitchen table, desperate for a hot drink.

To him.

And then my world had fallen to pieces around me within a matter of minutes, and here I am.

_This isn’t about you any more. This is about me, deserving more than I’m getting._

Strange, how I could become so dependent on something, when it was so apparently one-sided. A wave of self-pity crashes over me and the force of it makes my head spin. I tighten the ball my body’s been constricted into, leaning heavily on the walls against my back and side, wishing that it didn’t hurt so much. Wishing that I’d foreseen this, and caught myself long ago, before I’d found myself in a position where one person could have so much control over my ability to breathe without the air hitching in my lungs.

The indulgence of feeling sorry for myself is suddenly, swiftly accompanied by anger, seeming to bleed into me and spread throughout my body. I’m not sure who I’m angry at. Him, maybe, for deceiving me and then so viciously pulling the metaphorical rug out from underneath me. Or possibly myself, for being so stupid as to believe him, and let myself start caring.

Either way, I feel a dangerous mix of sadness and fury, the same emotions that have always made me want to lash out ever since I was a young child and didn’t know any better. The tendons in my hands and arms stand out clearly with the effort that it takes to keep myself from breaking something – either a wall, or my own fist. I screw my eyes up tightly and try to block out the memories of the way he looked when he was forming the words that still cut into me like glass splinters; I try to stop the image of his fury, his fisted hands, his barely-concealed shaking with the desire to hurt me, dancing across my mind’s eye.

I fail. I will always fail. Here in the house I grew up in, it’s easy to remember why; I’m a coward, always have been and always will be. I don’t have his strength, his ability to fall down and get back up again over and over, or to face things that I don’t like.

A strangled sob forces its way out of my chest and everything swims blurrily. I hope it’s the beginning of some sort of respite from my waking thoughts; with any luck, blackness will soon begin to tinge the edges of my consciousness, and I might be able to escape my memories in a horde of unrelated nightmares. It’s unlikely, but the thought is oddly comforting.

And that’s when I hear it.

“Draco?”

His voice is rough, full of an emotion that I don’t dare identify. At the sound of it, my stomach clenches painfully, and I want to retch until the feeling goes away.

I hear footsteps and realise that he must have worked out where I am. This had been a stupid place to hide, I know that. Ideally, if I’d been able to think through the haze of unwelcome tears and self-pity clouding my judgement, I would have made my way to the most hidden and inaccessible Muggle bar possible and spent hours there, drinking the required amount of alcohol to make me forget everything up to and including my own name. But instead, needing the quietest, most desolate spot I could get, I’d found myself Apparating to the Manor, landing in the strange unfamiliarity of my long-abandoned bedroom.

The sounds of someone moving down the corridor get louder, and I shiver. It seems as if he’s opening every single door, rushing through the entire house until he finds me.

I can’t help but pray he doesn’t see me when he looks into this room. I’m not sure I can handle any more of those words right now.

_Sometimes just looking at you makes me angry – just the expression on your face._

And then, the door flies open. For a second, there’s complete silence, and out of the corner of my eye I can see him standing unmoving in the doorway. It’s clear he’s seen me, but he doesn’t seem to want to move any closer. I feel a brief flash of despair that he can so visibly see how pathetic and broken I am, and a flare of anger from the sterner, more solid part of me, that asks indignantly how he dares to come near me after what he said. After what he did.

“Draco.”

My name is barely a sigh. I ignore him, not stirring from the corner I’ve backed myself into, keeping my head down and tucked against my arms. The tears still make tracks down my face, and I’ve given up trying to stop or deny them now – but I can hide them. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing what he’s doing to me.

It’s disgusting, that he’s come back for seconds. As if breaking me once wasn’t enough, he’s followed me to my place of refuge in order to... I don’t know. Tell me again that I’m not good enough. Rip me into even smaller pieces before he goes home and sleeps in a house that is finally empty of my presence.

“Draco,” he repeats, a little more firmly. He a few steps into the room and even though I’m resolutely not acknowledging him, I can feel his proximity all too clearly. Finally, it becomes too much.

“What?” The word cracks through the room like a whip, sharp and fierce just like I wanted, but there’s a catch in it that I fervently hope he couldn’t hear.

There’s a pause, a bloated mockery of silence, before he manages any more words. “Can we talk?”

Unbidden, my head jerks up and I stare at him with something that is between shock and horror. I can’t help but register his appearance. He looks awful; dark hair even more dishevelled than usual, shadows under his eyes, clothes crumpled and sitting uncomfortably on his frame. I didn’t realise I had such a negative effect on him, I think dully. Maybe he was right in suggesting I left.

“I have nothing to say,” I reply, clipping each word and aiming for a calm, level tone of voice.

He breathes in deeply. “I do.”

“Well, then,” I retort, and to my irritation I find that sarcasm has crept back in. So much for not letting him have anything else from me. “Far be it from me to stop you.”

For a brief second I think that I’ve managed to make him angry again, but then he takes another deep breath and moves the rest of the way into the room to sit awkwardly on the edge of the bed, just a metre or so away from me. He’s too close. I can feel the sickening sensation in my stomach getting worse the nearer he gets to me.

He seems uncomfortable, too, staring at his hands as if they’re utterly fascinating. I keep watching him now, unable to pull my gaze away, even though it takes a while before he starts talking.

“I know that I was... cruel, earlier,” he mutters uncomfortably, and there’s a sharp twist in my side. I should have expected the letting-you-down-easy approach, but I’d hoped he would realise it was too late for that, and that his being here is just making it worse. He looks up from watching his hands twist themselves together to meet my gaze, and for some reason it sends a jolt of anger through me; his annoying, over-the-top urge to protect people, and his arrogant assumption that he would be able to make things better. “I just wanted...”

Then he catches sight of the tears glistening on my face, and his eyes widen in shock. “Oh, Merlin, you’re crying –”

“Well noticed,” I hiss viciously. He appears to have no reply. “I’m sorry, is this jogging any painful memories for you? The last time you caught me like this, you cut me open, remember?” He winces, but I don’t care – all that matters is causing as much damage as I can, while I can. I twist my face into a sneer. “What’s the matter? Should I not look forward to a repeat of that, then?”

His hands ball into fists at his sides and I see a flash of anger in his expression. “Just stop it, okay? Let me finish –”

“I think you made yourself quite clear earlier. Don’t feel obliged to explain any further.” My voice has turned icy. It’s the tone of voice my father always used, and although I was never quite as good at affecting it as he was, it has the desired effect; the green eyes blink in shock.

“No – Draco, listen to me –”

“Don’t ‘Draco’ me, not again. I’ve had enough. I think you should leave.”

_I’m so fucking sick of all of this shit. Why don’t you just leave?_

The remembered words reverberate through my head, and they hurt. They rip at my insides, bringing back the lurching feeling in the pit of my stomach with impressive force, and I turn away, needing a respite from seeing his face.

A hand touches my shoulder and I cringe away from it violently. He drops it to his side. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he tells me, very softly.

I don’t meet his gaze, but I lift my chin a little, hoping to salvage whatever may or may not be left of my dignity at this point, before this man takes the rest of it. “Perhaps you could have chosen a nicer way to say it,” I intone, emotionlessly. “But now I know. So you can take your sense of responsibility and just fuck off.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then I am.” I attempt to climb gracefully to my feet, but it’s more of a stagger and a jerk upright. Even so, I feel better when I’m vertical. A little more put-together – or at least, more put-together on the outside. I sense it will take more than standing up to sort out the spiralling mess that is my head and heart right now.

Green eyes bore into mine with a desperation that I’ve never seen there before. “Please, please don’t. Give me a chance to explain.”

“Explain what, exactly?” My voice is raised, but it wavers embarrassingly. “That the last year of our lives has meant nothing to you? That all I am is a spoilt brat, a favour to be called in – that I’m just your fuck buddy? Is that what you wanted to explain?”

He looks distraught. “No, no, I’m sorry, please –”

“I get it. You’re done with me and now you just want a nice clean break. I was never really that important to you anyway, I can see that now.” I level a stare at him, my fury giving me something to hold myself up with, making it easier to stand straight and look into the face of the one person on this earth who has the power to crush me with a few well-chosen words.

For a second, he does nothing but stare at me, eyes unreadable. Then he drops his face into his hands and runs his fingers through his hair a couple of times, and I’m surprised despite myself at the nervousness the gesture seems to suggest. “Merlin, I’ve really made a mess of this.”

I don’t reply, although several biting retorts spring to mind.

He looks up and a bright, sincere gaze meets my own. “I know what I said to you was... inexcusable. But it isn’t what you think –”

Yet again, I find myself interrupting him. “There are only so many ways that ‘get the fuck out of my sight before I hurt you’ can be interpreted, you know,” I snap caustically.

Oddly enough, he appears to be close to tears himself. “I was angry, and upset. I thought... I thought you didn’t...”

“Oh, having a bit of trouble getting the words out, are we?” I sneer. “I didn’t see you having that problem earlier. You seemed pretty eloquent when you were telling me exactly how manipulative and heartless I am.”

I see a blaze of frustration in his eyes. “I know I was wrong, Draco, but I was lashing out!”

“So you’ve said!” I’m yelling now and it feels good, like I’m a little less overwhelmed by everything now that I’m not fighting it any more. “What possible reason could you have for being so fucking upset? Cause I’ve tried to imagine, and I really can’t figure it out!”

His lip curls a little. “So nice of you to make me say it, just to humiliate me a little bit more – as if it isn’t obvious, as if you don't already know –”

“Apparently, I don’t. So go ahead and enlighten me,” I hiss.

He shudders, takes a deep breath, and then he’s all but screaming the words. “Because – because I love you and it really fucking _hurts_ that you don’t feel the same!”

There is a moment of silence where we do nothing but stare at each other. I merely blink owlishly, as I watch his chest rise shallowly and rapidly, attempting to regain his breath.

Then he seems to collapse in on himself.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, shunting his glasses out of the way so that he can rub his eyes forcefully. “This isn’t – that was not how I imagined saying those words.” His voice is bitter, miserable, even desolate.

I finally manage to recover. “You... what?”

“Yes, you heard me right,” he snaps, and underneath the defensive exterior I can see that he is hurt. “It’s a shitty excuse for everything I said. But it’s the truth, and I honestly never meant for it to ruin what we had.”

That makes no sense to me. I shake my head jerkily as if to clear my thoughts. “Ruin what we had?” I ask softly, bewildered. How could that ruin...?

“I know... I know that whatever it is we’re doing here, together, doesn’t mean nearly as much to you as it does to me. But that isn’t your fault and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that, just because you weren’t interested in committing yourself any more than you already have.”

I stare in shock, and he apparently decides my expression means that I think he’s lying. He rushes onwards frantically, the words tripping over each other in his haste to get them out.

“I know that what I did was wrong, and that by saying what I said I was just making things even worse for myself. Draco, I really am sorry, so, so sorry. I don’t want anything more from you than you’re prepared to give. But if you – if you come back, I promise, I won’t –”

“Shut up,” I growl. It seems to successfully stop him in his tracks, but the words are replaced by a devastated look on his face that nearly breaks my heart. “You are a complete and utter idiot.”

I take a step closer and see uncertainty flash in his green eyes, see the wariness in his rigid stance and flickering gaze. He really is a moron. How could he think that I don’t value everything about the two of us together? How could I not feel the warmth and contentedness of waking up next to him, my face tucked into his collarbone, his arm curled gently around me? How is it possible that I don’t treasure him above everything else, when I spend my entire day waiting for the moment when I’ll get to see him again, get to see his smile and hear his voice and suffer all those wonderful things about him that make him so annoyingly perfect?

Decisively, even though I’m still shaking and the tears still glisten on my cheeks, I take his face in my hands, and a little part of me smiles inwardly at his expression of wide-eyed amazement when I do. I fix him with a stern look.

“You listen to me, okay? I don’t know what you’ve been doing that’s messed up your stupid head so badly, but just look at me. Look at me!” I can hear my own voice break, but it’s not important. I need to tell him this, and he needs to see the truth of it written all over my face. “If you didn’t mean the world to me, would I really be curled up in an empty manor, sobbing my tiny little heart out over you?”

It seems to take him a moment before he comprehends what I’m saying, and he bites his lip endearingly. “You mean – you’re saying you really feel...?”

“You are everything,” I say fervently. Then my hands drop and I wrap my arms around myself, continuing in a quiet voice that’s little more than a whisper, but there is a conviction behind the words that I know he must be able to hear, and I keep my eyes locked on his. “You’re everything I’ve been waiting for my entire life and never realised I was missing. And what we have is nothing short of the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The smile that breaks across his face at my words is unrestrained and blinding, possibly the most heart-wrenchingly stunning thing I’ve ever seen. For a brief moment it takes my breath away, and then it’s followed by a tender warmth in the emerald eyes that I find it hard to believe is for me alone.

He steps forward, narrowing the small space that’s left between us until he can tug at my arms, still wrapped around my torso, and then press his body against mine. He trails his fingertips from my wrists to the hollows of my neck and all the way up to my face, my skin tingling where he touches it, a familiar yet blissfully unique sensation.

“Beautiful man,” he murmurs, eyes bright, tracing all of my features as if they’re made of glass. “I love you. Please, forgive me.”

I shudder at his touch and close my eyes, letting my arms slip gently around his waist. The feeling is all the more potent, all the more intoxicating, because just minutes ago I was expecting to have to live without this. Without the presence of this man, needing and protecting me.

I lean forward to brush my lips softly against his, just one chaste touch. Then I tilt my face until our foreheads are resting together, close enough to each other that we breathe each other’s air. “I love you. So much.” Instinctively I tighten my grip around him and whisper the words so that he will feel them more than hear them. “Never leave me.”

His hands stop their gentle roaming, one ending up twined in the hair at the nape of my neck and the other splaying against my collarbone. He inhales deeply, contentedly, and I feel rather than see the smile stretch across his face.

“Never,” he promises resolutely, and then he’s moving so that we can press our lips together again, in a silent and unwavering promise that surpasses what we can say with words; _I can’t be without you, and I don’t want to try._


End file.
